The Palace Hotel, 4th Floor

  The fourth-floor corridor of The Palace Hotel did not feel like part of a building, but rather a time tunnel trapped in cold luxury. The walls were clad in dark cream damask wallpaper that began to peel faintly at the corners where it met the ceiling, masked by the dim glow of candle-shaped sconces. There was no sound here. Thick, dusty maroon carpet swallowed every footstep, creating a silence that pressed against the eardrums.

  At the end of the hall, an antique full-length mirror stood arrogant in a heavy carved mahogany frame.

  Ellios stopped in front of it.

  He saw his own reflection, framed stiffly within the glass. A nineteen-year-old youth who looked like a ghost amidst the grandeur of the old hotel.

  His face was gaunt, with cheekbones too prominent for a boy his age. Silver hair—the birthmark that always made him the center of unwanted attention—fell messily over his forehead, slightly limp from the humidity. His narrow, slanted eyes stared back with a flat gaze, as if bored by his own existence.

  Ellios exhaled a long breath through his nose.

  Hhh.

  Warm vapor escaped his nostrils, clinging to the cold glass surface, creating an instant white fog that blurred the reflection of his pale face. For a moment, he didn't have to see how fragile he looked.

  "Tch."

  He snorted softly, mocking himself.

  In that mirror, he saw his body wrapped in a loose shirt. No proud muscle mass like Arka or William. He was merely a skeleton wrapped in pale, transparent skin. Light. Too light. It felt as if a window were opened even slightly at the end of this hall, he would be lifted, floating away on the wind to god-knows-where like a useless dry leaf.

  Underweight, he thought cynically. An Assassin who probably couldn't even lift William’s broadsword.

  Ellios turned his face away, reluctant to stare into his own eyes any longer. He stepped away from the mirror. His steps were as light as cotton, barely leaving an indentation on the thick carpet. He moved like a shadow—not because he wanted to hide, but because gravity seemed reluctant to pull him too strongly to earth.

  He walked down the corridor, his thin fingers trailing along the cold wall as he headed toward door number 402.

  Ellios raised his thin hand, long pale fingers touching his own cheek. He pinched the skin—pulling it slightly.

  Soft. Supple. Elastic.

  When he released it, there was a faint plop sound, and the skin returned to its original shape flawlessly. He rubbed the spot, feeling the smooth texture that someone living in the underworld should not possess.

  "Damn, am I a woman?" he grumbled softly, his raspy voice bouncing weakly off the corridor walls. "How can a man have skin this smooth... while those two monsters in room 402 have rhino hide."

  Before he finished cursing his genetic fate, the floor beneath his feet vibrated.

  Not an earthquake. It was a rhythm.

  DOOM... DOOM... DOOM...

  The sound of heavy, slow, forcibly dragged footsteps. Someone—or something—was ascending or descending the emergency stairs at the end of the hall with unnatural weight.

  Ellios’ instincts took over. His cotton-light body darted soundlessly, hiding behind a two-meter marble statue—a war hero brandishing a sword. Ellios bent his knees, merging with the statue’s shadow.

  From the gap between the statue’s legs and the pillar, Ellios’ slanted eyes peeked out.

  The emergency stair door opened—or rather, was shoved roughly.

  The figure emerged.

  Rams Ghandarvya. Lord of the Grand Desert.

  Ellios held his breath, not out of fear, but out of pure disgust. The man looked like a glob of fat wrapped in expensive silk. His face was flushed crimson, flooded with oily sweat that made his bald scalp shine under the dim corridor lights.

  Ellios could hear his breathing from ten meters away. It sounded like a broken water pump.

  "Hhh... hhh... krrhhh..."

  Rams stopped right on the landing, cursing crudely. Ellios caught mutterings about a "damn doctor, making a virile man move his body" and threats to raise the price of imported medicine. The old man coughed violently, a wet and disgusting HACKKK shaking every ounce of fat on his body.

  And that was when Ellios witnessed a tragic comedy.

  The maroon wool vest encasing Rams’ distended belly surrendered.

  PING!

  A pure gold button the size of a large coin shot into the air from the explosive pressure of the gut, then fell to the stone floor.

  Clink... clink... clink...

  The button rolled merrily, away from its master.

  Ellios narrowed his eyes sharper. He saw the change in Rams’ face. The old man who moments ago looked ready to die of breathlessness suddenly stopped. His eyes, buried in fat, opened slightly—staring at the gold button.

  It wasn't the look of a tired man. It was the look of a predator.

  He’s calculating it, Ellios thought coldly. This old fossil is calculating the grams of gold running away from him.

  Rams didn't pick it up—he was too fat to bend over—but his eyes looked as if they wanted to swallow the button whole.

  With a rough movement driven by anger, Rams dragged his feet toward the elevator. He didn't press the button with a finger. He clenched a fleshy fist adorned with gemstone rings.

  BAM!

  He punched the 'Down' button.

  "Open up, stupid..." Rams hissed, his voice audible to Ellios’ sharp ears.

  The elevator doors chimed and opened. Rams dragged his body inside, leaving a trail of sweat vapor on the elevator mirror before the doors closed, taking the thick scent of oil and greed with him.

  Ellios stepped out from behind the hero statue. He stared at the digital numbers above the elevator descending to the 3rd floor.

  "Third floor..." Ellios muttered, recalling the hotel schematic. "Private entertainment area."

  He saw the gold button lying lonely near the stairs. Ellios walked over, gently kicking the button with the tip of his shoe until it rolled into the gap of a drain in the corner wall.

  "Sorry, Lord Rams," he whispered cynically to the empty hall. "Your gold runs farther than you thought."

  Instead of heading to room 402, Ellios’ feet turned. There was something intriguing about the raging Rams. The stench of desperation and rotten power wafted from him.

  Ellios descended the emergency stairs silently, slipping like smoke to the third floor.

  In front of the mahogany double doors with the carved gold nameplate —The Royal Bar—, Ellios stopped. The door was slightly ajar, having not closed completely after being shoved roughly by Rams.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Ellios didn't enter. He stood in the shadowed gap of the door hinge, held his breath, and peeked with one slanted eye.

  The bar was completely empty. The lighting was dim, giving a futile sense of exclusivity. No music, no guests. Only a poor young bartender wiping glasses behind a long bar counter made of black iron slab.

  And there was Rams.

  The old man rolled toward the bar—literally looking like a rolling meatball—then dropped his massive buttocks onto a high stool.

  Creaaak.

  The squeal of the chair sounded painful even from this distance. Ellios winced internally. Hold on, poor chair.

  "Brandy..." Rams’ growl sounded raspy, like stone grinding at the bottom of a dry well. "Solara VVS Brandy. The black bottle."

  Ellios’ eyes widened slightly. Solara VVS? That was rare liquor from the northern district. A single shot could fund a working-class family for a month.

  The young bartender, with trembling hands, reached for a small crystal snifter—standard for such a drink.

  "NOT A TOY GLASS!"

  Rams’ shout exploded, making the glasses on the wall rack vibrate.

  "XXXL glass. Get a beer mug if you have to! Or a flower vase! I need a lot!"

  Ellios shook his head slowly. Savage. He wants to drink the nectar of the gods using a bucket?

  Then, Rams placed his thick right hand on the iron bar counter. He lifted it and slammed it down.

  THUD.

  Ellios observed the detail keenly. No sound of bone hitting metal. No sharp clang. The sound was dull. Dense. The padding of fat on Rams’ palm dampened everything, like a giant rubber mallet.

  Terrifying.

  Rams lifted his face. From the door crack, Ellios could see the profile. His jowly cheeks were flushed red, but his eyes...

  Ah, those eyes.

  The same slanted eyes as Ellios’, but the contents were different. If Ellios’ eyes were empty and bored, Rams’ eyes were those of a cornered desert wolf. Hungry. Savage. No humanity there. Only the pure instinct to devour or kill.

  Rams’ voice dropped an octave, becoming a whisper far more frightening than his shout earlier.

  "Pour it now," he hissed. "Or I’ll use your skull as a cup."

  Ellios felt the hair on his neck stand up slightly. That was not an empty threat. A man like Rams didn't need to chop off heads himself; he could buy a thousand executioners to do it in the blink of an eye.

  This old man is in a killing mood, Ellios concluded. And he needs alcohol to wash the taste of blood from his mouth.

  Ellios glanced through the door crack, watching the poor bartender face his fate. Rams Ghandarvya wasn't just a rich fat pig; he was a wounded monster. And wounded monsters usually do crazy things.

  "Good luck, Bartender Kid," he murmured soundlessly. "You'll need more than courage to pour drinks for that devil."

  Ellios stepped forward, entering the silent bar, moving soundlessly over the marble floor like a ghost crashing a party.

  He chose a seat at the furthest end of the bar, in the dimmest area.

  "Whisky," he whispered to the void, since the only bartender there was being held hostage by the monster at the other end. Ellios grabbed a whisky bottle left on the table, poured himself a small glass, then sipped it while swiveling the chair to face the drama stage.

  And the drama began with an explosion.

  "WHERE IS THE SUGAR?!"

  Ellios saw the bartender’s shoulders jump. Pitiful. The kid looked like a rabbit trapped in an obese wolf’s cage.

  Ellios stared flatly as Rams snatched the glass of Solara VVS—a drink costing more than the dignity of an elite estate in Crownbelt—then gargled with it. The gurgle-gurgle sound was wet and crude.

  PTHUI!

  The golden-brown liquid landed on the floor.

  Ellios winced thinly. Solara VVS used as mouthwash. This old man was truly the definition of classless wealth.

  Then came the sugar.

  Ellios’ slanted eyes widened slightly, amazed at the madness before him. Rams poured a full bowl of sugar into the brandy glass. The white sand drowned the alcohol, displacing the liquid up to the limit of physical impossibility.

  Surface tension.

  Ellios held his own breath, tense watching the convex curve of liquid at the glass rim. Physics was being tested there. One vibration, and the liquid spills.

  "STIR!"

  The command sounded insane. Ellios shook his head slowly, downing his own whisky. That’s not an order, he thought. That’s a slow execution. How do you stir wet cement in a full glass without spilling it?

  He saw the bartender’s hand trembling, spoon clinking softly. The tension in the air was so dense it could be sliced with a knife. Rams enjoyed this. He wasn't thirsty; he was hungry for fear. He ate the kid’s fear as an appetizer.

  And then, the monster drank.

  Glug... glug... glug...

  Ellios could imagine the texture. Rough. Gritty. The undissolved sugar must be scraping the throat like sandpaper. But Rams swallowed it as if it were mother’s milk.

  SLAM!

  The empty glass was smashed down.

  "BUUUURRPPP..."

  The long belch echoed in the empty room. Ellios put down his whisky glass, his appetite for drink gone instantly. The smell of sugar, alcohol, and stomach gas seemed to waft all the way to the end of the bar where he sat.

  Rams laughed, praising his "powerful" drink.

  "Pretentious elite nobles... that crazy Rhavas has a numb tongue..." Rams scoffed.

  Ellios smiled crookedly behind his glass.

  Ironic, Ellios thought. You insult Rhavas for his taste in wine, while you yourself just drank cough syrup worth thousands of gold coins.

  Just as that rough snort left Rams’ nose—

  Clink.

  Ellios set his glass down.

  The sound of glass hitting the table was soft, polite, and controlled. A painful contrast to the brutality next to him. Ellios glanced at the bar counter. The sight was truly ridiculous. Rams’ jumbo mug—sticky, dirty, and full of disgusting residue—stood next to Ellios’ slender crystal glass containing clear liquid.

  Like seeing a wild boar wallowing in mud next to a swan that just bathed.

  Rams turned slowly. His thick neck rotated reluctantly.

  Ellios met the gaze. He stood tall, letting his neat, wrinkle-free suit speak of the self-discipline the old man next to him lacked.

  "Hehe..."

  Ellios chuckled softly. A crisp sound, designed to sound harmless.

  "So... that is the correct way to drink brandy, Lord Ghandarvya?" he asked amiably.

  His lips curved into a wide smile until his eyes narrowed into slits, forming two inverted crescents. Yet behind his eyelids, Ellios was observing. He saw Rams fall silent. He saw the old pig’s eyes scanning his face.

  Ah, he's comparing, Ellios thought, amused.

  Rams stared at Ellios’ slanted eyes, then snorted roughly. Ellios could read the man’s mind as clearly as writing on a billboard. Rams felt insulted. They both had slanted eyes, but the causes were different. Ellios’ eyes were slanted due to elegant genetics—sharp fox eyes. While Rams’ eyes...

  Ellios held back a cynical smirk. Your eyes are slanted because your cheeks are eating your own face, Mr. Fatty. The fat on your forehead presses down, your cheeks push up. You aren't slanted, you're just swollen.

  "HMPH..." Rams looked away, clearly disturbed by Ellios’ cotton-light physical "perfection."

  But then, the gaze returned. This time sharper. Those fat-squeezed eyes narrowed, focusing on Ellios’ silver hair.

  Bingo, Ellios thought. He recognizes this birthmark.

  "The Randar brat..." The growl came out heavy, like the sound of grinding stones. His tone was accusatory, as if Ellios’ very existence was a violation of the law.

  Ellios wasn't offended. Instead, he bowed slightly—a theatrical movement too graceful for this bar smelling of alcohol and sugar.

  "Ellios Randar," he corrected smoothly but firmly. He didn't like being called just "brat." He had a name.

  Rams snorted again, an aura of wariness beginning to exude from him. Ellios knew the old man was racking his brain, remembering who his father was—Godric Randar, the Old Fox of Mount Rhagas.

  Good. Be wary.

  Ellios leaned his thin frame slightly forward, resting his chin on his hand on the bar counter. He stared straight into the slit of Rams’ eyes. Time to stab.

  "Lord Ghandarvya has had a private meeting with Lord Rahgaras..." he said softly. His voice was deliberately gentle, but his articulation clear, ensuring every syllable landed on Rams’ eardrums.

  "What is your opinion on the offer?"

  Silence.

  The jumbo glass in Rams’ hand stopped in mid-air.

  Ellios maintained his smile—the "theater mask" smile he had practiced for years. Friendly on the outside, empty on the inside. He let Rams guess: How much does this kid know? Who leaked it?

  Rams, a cunning old player, wouldn't give up that easily. Ellios saw the wide mouth open, displaying yellow teeth coated in crystal sugar.

  "HAHAHAHAHA..."

  The laughter exploded. Loud. Crude. Shaking his distended belly and making the bar counter vibrate.

  "What meeting? What offer?" Rams waved his giant hand, as if swatting a fly. "It was just a meeting of old friends! We drank a lot... talked about youth, talked about women!"

  Women? Ellios thought flatly. You probably forgot what a woman looks like after years of not seeing your own toes. Lame lie.

  But Ellios didn't argue. He played along. His slender shoulders shook gently.

  "Hehehe..."

  Ellios chuckled along. His voice was light, sharp, infiltrating the gaps in Rams’ thunderous laughter.

  At that lonely bar counter, their laughter answered each other. A terrifying duet. The heavy laughter of the dominant desert wolf, and the light laughter of the young fox slicing the air.

  They laughed together as if it were the funniest joke in the world. Yet behind their narrowed eyelids, there was no humor at all.

  Ellios stared at Rams. Rams stared at Ellios.

  Two pairs of slanted eyes locked onto each other, measuring each other, waiting to see who would stop laughing first and draw the dagger.